


The Question

by PeterCrowe



Category: The Question (Comics)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:09:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21655039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeterCrowe/pseuds/PeterCrowe
Summary: The Question is the story of Vic Sage aka the Question, a reporter  and vigilante crime-fighter in Hub-City. Hub has been relatively quiet in recent years, its famous days of corruption seem long past and the city has re-branded itself as part of the new urban renewal derived from tech start-up entrepreneurs. The sudden incursion of super-crime shatters the city's brief idyll and as the Question investigates the source of his home-town's new woes, he uncovers a conspiracy of vast proportions.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	The Question

**The Question**

Chapter One

_“Why am I here?”_

Vic Sage looked up at an overcast sky. It was perfectly uniform in color, impenetrable, like a hammered sheet of metal. High above was a man, made vague by distance: silhouetted, an outline filled in black against the gray, unbroken walls of heaven. The man stood on a precipice, the hard world far below. He seemed to linger for an eternity, wavering on the brink of life. The spectacle mesmerized in a way that only immediate tragedy could; after long moments, Vic broke his gaze and took in his surroundings. The crowd stared at the spectacle in abject horror. For some reason he had feared a mob would form, nihilistically chanting jump, jump, jump. But the only indecency was a common, modern one: people held up their cell phones, recording the event. Vic wasn’t any better than them; he recorded it too. It was his job.  


The man fell. He didn’t leap. He just fell, resigned to the inexorable force of gravity. He remained a black outline as he went down, more like a shadow than a man. His body didn’t tumble as it hurtled to impact; if he had his eyes open, he saw the end rushing to meet him. People uttered oaths or wordlessly expressed anguish.  


_“Life is a horizontal fall.”_  


Vic hated himself for thinking this. It sounded fatalistic and Vic didn’t believe in determinism. We make our own choices, that’s the way life is. But the quote was what came to mind. We’re all hurtling towards death, whether we realize it or not. The best we can do is make the most of the time we have before it happens. A young woman, fashionably dressed, long platinum blond hair clasped in a ponytail passed by. “Why do you think he did it?” she asked a man walking close beside her. The man, also young, with a shaved head and build like a linebacker, shook his head. The young man trained his eyes on the ground and stared into distant places. The two held hands as they walked away.

Vic turned off the camera and put his cell in his suit jacket breast pocket. There was a police barricade around the building, only cops and medical personnel allowed through. The body hadn’t been taken away, but Vic couldn’t see it from behind the lines of yellow tape; too crowded with blue clad and plainclothes policemen.  


“Vic Sage…” a gravelly voice intoned. Vic turned his head. A cop approached, piercing gray eyes, face harsh with its age, hair prematurely gray. Clay Ricker, detective with the HCPD. Tenured, old school, which in Hub City meant a lot of things, most of them not in keeping with the times. He was one of the few left.  
“Detective Ricker.” Vic replied, the name expressed in a flat voice, like he was recognizing the face on a photograph or in a line-up. “What’s the story?”  
“That’s the real question. The one we’re all asking, isn’t it?” Clay chuckled, his voice rasping. Then the detective frowned, looked down, fished a cigarette out of a pocket on his long coat. He took his time, placed the cigarette in his mouth, lifted his head back up, and lit it with an old brass Zippo, cupping the flame against the wind. He inhaled deep and breathed out a long, curling dragon of smoke that spiraled upward slowly in the cold air.  
“Come to get it right this time?” Clay asked. Vic didn’t answer. The two held glares and then Clay walked off. “Enh,” he waved at Vic with his back turned. “find someone else to tell you the god-damn story.”  


Vic sighed. The smell of tobacco made him think about how long it had been since he had a good smoke. He took out a small notepad and jotted down words, a few lines, reminders to look for when he returned later. His cell vibrated. Vic took it out, expecting Chip Early on caller ID, making sure he was on the scene. Downtown on the river was part of Vic’s regular coverage.  
But it wasn’t Chip, it was Nora. “Hello?”  
“Why Vic, you picked up.” Nora said. She paused and added, “I usually go into voicemail and wait for a callback. I think this might be a first for you.” Her voice was deep and rich. She always spoke slowly, methodically.  
Vic scanned the crowds while on the phone. Nervous habit, he had done this throughout his career, made it look like he was talking about someone out there. Not a few people looked at him while he looked at them. “It’s not the first…is it?” Vic ventured.  
“Hmmm. Maybe not.” Nora replied, thoughtful. “But it is the first now, as far as I’m concerned, Mr. Sage.” She chuckled. “So, are you coming tonight?” Nora’s voice trailed off at the end. It was phrased like a question, but it wasn’t.  
“A man just killed himself.” Vic said. “I think he was prominent, based on all the police here, but anyway, regardless, I think I need to look into it.” It was true, more police rather than fewer. The pedestrian crowd started to disperse, but the ambulance hadn’t left the scene yet. They were giving extra care to whoever it was.  
“It was someone prominent Vic,” Nora confirmed, “McCauley Houston.” She looked at herself in the mirror, regarding her choice of attire for the evening. The television was on mute, Bell News TV, BNT, a tickertape of events scrolled at the bottom of the screen. McCauley Houston was a two-sentence story streaming repeatedly with other latest headlines: impeachment hearings, impending recession, climate change flooding, mass protests in Kaznia. “Bell beat you to it.” She added.  
“I have a funny feeling there is more to the story than anything those morons report.” Vic replied with no small amount of disdain; but despite himself, the KBEL slogan from way back, “the bell has rung!” ran through his head.  
“Probably,” Nora agreed. “but Vic, are you coming tonight?”  
“Did I say I would?” Vic asked, unable to recall if he made a commitment.  
“I don’t know,” Nora continued, “do I have to ask you to come? I figured you would just show and give me your support.”  
There was a pause in the conversation. Vic hadn’t seen Nora in a while. That’s why she called. “Vic, don’t even tell me you have a busy evening ahead of you…” Nora always let go with a North Hub accent when she was getting mad.  
“I’ll be there, Nora. Promise.” Vic assured.  
“Good. Well.” Nora sighed, she still looked at herself in the mirror. She twisted a long strand of braided black hair in a finger, widened her chocolate brown eyes. “I guess I’ll see you then.” Feeling the need to be the one to end the call, she hit end call. It’s against professional protocol to date people you work with, Nora thought. But she and Vic hadn’t worked together in years. Nora landed in a red swivel chair and questioned her choice of attire for the evening, thoughts and conflicts like that were familiar and comfortable.  


Vic looked at his cell screen and briefly wondered if it was a dropped call. Nora’s name was still there. He wandered away from the scene. McCauley Houston was a prominent person. Young newly minted entrepreneur, a son of the Hub who went away to Silicon Valley to get into the startup scene. He returned once his company got going, put headquarters in his hometown, which suddenly made the second city of a fly-over state an icon of up and coming tech cool. McCauley was a flamboyant young man, but a decent enough guy from what Vic heard. He was a controversial figure in some circles, the posterchild for inner city renewal and gentrification. All the success he brought to the city landed in the historic districts. Reportedly, he liked the character of old buildings, riverfront ambiance. A lot of people blamed him personally for how unaffordable places like old Harvey-Town had suddenly become for the working poor. Harvey boomed after the initial McCauley investments and acquisitions; jacked up rents were spilling over next door into Sweet Auburn, the traditionally black part of town which also happened to be where Nora’s event took place.  


Clay watched Vic saunter off, phone still in hand. Whoever called must have really rattled the man’s cage. The reporter looked distracted, like he was weighing some serious matter, something in his life that didn’t have an easy answer. Probably lady trouble, his ex, something like that. Clay shook his head, glad to see Vic go. The last thing the city needed was a bleeding-heart liberal write-up about a famous local hero who decided he couldn’t take it anymore. Clay imagined the editorial: some bullshit along the lines of money doesn’t make you happy, or even being at the top of your game, a success by any reasonable measure, doesn’t mean you’re not dying inside.  


Charlie walked up brisk and stopped short in front of Clay, almost like a soldier happily reporting for duty, you half expect him to knock heels together and salute. Charlie had a smile under a burly black moustache. He pushed his cap back on his large, mostly bald head. “You got something?” Clay asked.  
Charlie shook his head. “Nope. Looks like what it looks like.”  
“Which is?”  
“Like a suicide. No one else was even in the building.”  
Clay’s eyes narrowed, the wind off the river made them cold and watery. “McCauley liked to live it up. He gambled a lot, drank a lot, women, probably did drugs…”  
“Yeah, toxicology should tell us if he was on something.” Charlie agreed, paused and added, “You know, he did gamble a lot. I mean. A. LOT. I saw him lose ten grand on the floor just a few months ago. Do you think that was why…?”  
Clay smiled mirthlessly. Boats plied out on the river; tankers, containers for the most part. The gambling rigs docked further up the water, where the Saint-Denis emptied into the Missouri. “Gambling debts? Are you serious?” Clay scoffed.  
Charlie looked away at Clay’s jeer, embarrassed and shook his head again. “I don’t know, just, you know, seems possible.” He said tentatively.  
“No, Charlie. Not possible. McCauley Houston could not possibly burn through that much money on any local card barge. Revenue per annum on Digital Foundry is in the billions.” Clay laughed. Charlie wanted to be a detective someday, but that day was a long way off.  
“Yeah, okay. Well you know you don’t have to be a dick about it.” Charlie muttered.  
Clay coughed at the end of his laughter. His voice rasped even more. “Yeah, you’re right.” He put an arm on the now sullen Charlie’s shoulder. “Tell you what, fuck this, let me get you a beer at Shooter’s.”  
Charlie brightened. His smile revealed prominent, bucking teeth. “That is, as long as you don’t order any of that fruity crap.” Clay added. “What was that you got last time, pineapple beer?”  
“Hey, you know, you shouldn’t knock craft brewing. That stuff’s local too…”  
“Yeah, whatever. We got a reputation to uphold Charlie, can’t have people see you drinking that stuff if you want to make detective.”  
“For real?”  
Clay thought for a moment. “Yeah, kinda for real. Come on, let’s get going.”  
“Darts?”  
“Sure, I’ll kick your ass again as usual. Tell you what, loser gets the next round.”  
“What? But I thought you were buying!”

The wind chased the clouds away and the night in Hub City snapped cold but it made the burg crisp, stark and almost beautiful. Vic Sage lived in Harvey Town, originally named Le Havre by the French trappers and fur traders that ferried up the Mississippi and founded Hub City. The Harvey Town of Vic’s youth was a working-class district of the city, an impoverished urban section well known for violent crime, alcoholism, prostitution and a host of other social ills. Modern Harvey Town was different: cafes, breweries, vinyl record stores, loft apartments, refurbed factory buildings boasting technology start-ups. Rents went up with property values and drove out the urban poor. The average salary in Harvey was fifty-two thousand a year, the average educational level was master’s degree. Harvey bordered North Hub and its rampant growth, aided by politicians eager to advertise the rebirth of the city, edged into neighboring districts. The people of Sweet Auburn, an African American community with a long history of jazz music and creole food, watched the rising tide of growth lapping at their doors with a sense of dread and resignation.

Vic walked the city when he could. There were things you missed in the car, details that only revealed themselves by being on the scene live and in person. It was a habit he had before his reporting days, before journalism school. As a kid he wandered alone for hours all over the desolate wastes of Inner Hub, across miles of broken pavement and old tar roofs, along junk strewn estuaries on the moaning black river. Vic marveled in adulthood that nothing ever happened to him. But he saw a lot.

It was a short walk from Sloan Street, where Vic bought a loft apartment before the area really boomed, and back when he still worked for KBEL and made serious money as a TV news anchor. Sweet Auburn was practically next door and the transition when you crossed Ward Avenue, a wide four lane that ran parallel to the old train tracks, was startling. Suddenly, there were pawnshops, liquor stores, dilapidated conveniences. Further in, further north, it got worse, boarded up buildings scrawled with graffiti, homeless sleeping on benches, addicts fixing in doorways, trash in the streets. It wasn’t going to last, though. Harvey looked practically the same just ten years ago, and then came the wave of urban renewal. The Harvey poor were long gone, resettled in vast trailer parks to the west of the city.

Nora’s gallery was called the North of Central and stood at the edge of Sweet Auburn. Originally a church, she bought the site for a song during the Great Recession and repurposed the house of worship as a center for the arts. The location at the edge of Sweet Auburn was intentional. There needed to be easy access for the true patrons of the arts, the civically conscious well-to-do that didn’t mind driving through Harvey and seeing just a little bit of Sweet Auburn at night, as long as there was plenty of safe parking behind razor wire and the presence of security was visible. Black men in white jackets parked cars. Couples in dark and glittering evening finery laughed and bounced into the gallery. A trip to the North-Side for the evening was an adventure to brag about. The sultry tunes of contemporary jazz, played live and composed local, emanated from the gallery. Vic approached quietly and made his way through the monied and well-heeled, the favored sons of Hub City. He recognized many of them and recalled a time not too long ago when he would have been recognized as well. But not anymore, he might as well have been faceless.

“Vic!” a familiar voice called out. Vic turned, across the room a tall African American man in a pinstripe suit waved an arm out to call attention. Ted Emerson, he also wrote for the Hub, covering the northern part of the city. Vic approached.  
“Hey, what’s going on?” Ted asked, grinned warmly and teased, “Did you know there was some kinda exhibition opening here tonight?”  
“Uh, that’s why I’m here…” Vic returned the smile, somewhat stiff.  
“Really? I came for the free food myself, but shhh, don’t tell anybody.” Ted popped antipasto into his mouth. “These prosciutto wrapped figs are amazing. You gotta try them. Vito’s catering. You ever been to Vito’s?”  
Vic took a drink from a passing tray, a glass of garnet hued chianti decanted from Italian fiasco hours earlier. “Of course I have. Vito’s Italian, you can’t say you’re from Hub City without eating there at least once.” He sniffed the wine, inhaling the earthen bouquet of Italy and took a large sip.  
Ted nodded. “You got that right. One of the best things in North Hub. I’ve known Uncle Vic since I was a kid. Opened an Italian restaurant in Sweet Auburn. Back then, people thought he was crazy.” Ted went to an open window, a warm breeze wafted in, bringing the scent of rosemary and freshly baked bread. Vito’s, announced in bright red neon signage, was clear to see on the other side of the street. “But they aren’t saying that now, that’s for sure…” Ted looked thoughtful.  
“Well well, two of my former co-workers in the same place at the same time.” Nora said from behind. “I’m glad you both could make it.”  
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world!” Ted exclaimed. “What you’re doing, showcasing art by local artists…it’s…” he paused and took in the predominately white uptown patronage decked out in their finery. “…important to show folks what really goes on here. Art’s the best way to do that.”  
“You think so, huh?” Nora nodded, made a circular motion with a fluted champagne glass she held in her hand as a semi-toast to Ted’s words and smiled.  
“I know so.” Ted said with conviction. Then, he turned and looked at Vic. “Hey, why are you here? Not trying to horn in on my North Hub action are you?” he elbowed Vic playfully.  
“Um,” Vic paused and sipped his wine, unsure of how to reply.  
Nora took Vic’s arm and led him towards the inner gallery where canvases hung in painterly glory. “He’s here to watch it all happen, of course…” Nora said back to Ted.

Clay scowled at the widescreen mounted high on a wall. “Goddamn Wildcats! I hate that fucking team.” He pointed a finger vindictively, gulped his beer and turned back to the dartboard. The Wildcats were pounding the Bears, halftime and it was easy to see which way it was going to go. Clay had a bad feeling about the game in the days leading up to it, but he laid bets against the Wildcats just the same. Losing money made him feel like he had a justifiable reason to hate the Wildcats, not that he needed one.  
“You really don’t like those guys do you?” Charlie asked.  
“I can’t fucking stand them.” Clay replied, staring at the screen.  
“Why do you hate them so much?” Charlie asked.  
“Jesus, Charlie, do you even need to ask, really?” Clay turned back to the dartboard, refocused and cast a dart. As he had predicted, he handily defeated Charlie on several rounds. Charlie was silent and still looked at Clay for an answer. “Because I fucking hate Gotham City, and anything to do with that pestilential shit-hole. That’s why.”  
“You were a cop there for a while weren’t you?”  
Without waiting for Charlie to take his turn, Clay threw another dart. “Yeah, yeah I was. Years ago. Wasn’t there long.”  
“Did you ever see…” An open, vague question, but Clay knew exactly what Charlie was going to ask. It was the same question he was always asked when people found out he did time on the GCPD; and when they found out he was there years ago it made them even more curious. Everyone wanted to know what it was like there, especially back then.  
“What? Batman?” Clay spat. With just a mention, Gotham City loomed behind his eyes and in his memory. The city occupied a large space in Clay Ricker’s imagination ever since he was a kid. Gotham, the setting for the best crime films, movies Clay devoured when he was young, made him want to be a cop or a made man. Movies like Coppola’s Moxon, Scorcese’s Gangs of Gotham. Reality didn’t disappoint, bat-town was just as large in real life. Too large, a massive expressionist urban sprawl that consumed anything that went into it. Clay worked there for one year and that was more than enough. He thought about it unwillingly and often.  
“Enh, once or twice.” Clay gulped more beer and suddenly wanted something stiffer. Whiskey on the rocks. He tossed another dart.  
Charlie looked around to make sure his words weren’t heard; this was an unnecessary effort, no one was listening. “Hey, you think our own superhero might get involved in…”  
Clay looked at Charlie incredulously. “Superhero? What, are you serious?”  
“Well, yeah, I mean…”  
“Charlie, Hub City doesn’t have a superhero. Jesus Christ, listen to me, I mean, what the hell is a superhero? Do you know? Can you tell me?”

Superheroes were on the news, you saw them all the time. Flashy tights, perfect bodies, great moves, secret identities and assumed names that gave them power. Everyone had a favorite, one they chose to know a lot about, that they thought was cool and could relate to. If you lived in a state without any super people you picked one from a state that did. Charlie grew up in rural-suburban Missouri, far away from the real action. He streamed superhero (and supervillain) content channels with names like Total Crisis, Secret Society, Cross-Over. He followed the public ones on Twitter, read about them at fan sites, argued vociferously in comments sections, had posters of Black Canary and Zatanna next to Led Zeppelin and the Doors on the wood paneled wall of his room back home. He played fantasy super-team with other online enthusiasts, matched his fictional line-ups against those of his friends. Charlie’s latest team, the Twilighters, an unlikely alliance of mysterious meta-marks like Black Orchid, Shade the Changing Man, Doctor Midnight etcetera had done exceptionally well that season. He kept it all a closely guarded secret from anyone on the force. You could tell a lot about a person based on who their favorite superhero was. Charlie’s favorite wasn’t Batman, actually. Batman was too popular, too well-known, too easy. Despite keeping his cool reputation when he got famous, Batman was still superhero Top Forty. Same with Superman. And Wonder-Woman. They were hero establishment and about as exciting as last year’s pop-music, nothing edgy about them, not really. A true aficionado went for something more obscure, more esoteric, something that indicated you were in the know. And Hub City had just the thing for that.

“Um, I don’t know. You tell me. You’re the one who met the guy.” Charlie replied. “Hey, isn’t it my turn yet? I mean, you’ve gone a lot of times.”  
Clay ruffled his hair. “Oh, yeah, we still playing? Go ahead.” Charlie picked up a dart and threw it, his aim was better than before. “Listen Charlie, super-hero is just something the government came up with to sell us all on the idea that it was just fine to have people around us who can wreck half the city if they’re having a bad day.”  
Charlie didn’t look at Clay, but furrowed his brow, he threw another dart. “Why would they do that?”  
Clay opened his mouth to reply, but an unearthly scream ripped the night apart.

The scream filled heaven and earth and all the levels between them. A woman’s voice, an all-consuming ululation that was the terror and explosion of being, bursting mindful reality apart into violations of jagged shrapnel. Cacophony ran through the minds and souls of those who heard with white-hot feet. People fled blindly, mad with panicked instinct. People cowered and collapsed to the ground, mindless in fear. People stood motionless, their voices and being harmonized to the shrilling.

The scream was gone as fast as it arrived. Vic found himself on the floor of the gallery, shielding Nora with his body. “I’m alright Vic…” Nora said, her voice sounded murky, slurred, like noises do after a high-powered concert. “Vic.” Vic rose slowly. Nora allowed him to pull her up off the floor, which was littered with broken glass and human beings.

A moment of silence. Then, like a fleet of cars crashing at full tilt, twisting metal, collapsing brick. Vic rushed to the window, Ted was already there. Across the street, Vito’s and attendant tenements buckled and collapsed, exhaling vast plumes of gray soot, dirt and fragments.  
Ted swore and dashed from the room. Vic craned further out the window, peering into a bright silver night lit by a swollen, gibbous moon. A figure, made dark against the moonglow, hovered in the air. Cape fluttering in the wind, a cannon in its hands. The figure surveyed its handiwork for a few moments and then hovered away, slowly, almost as if it were drifting on the breeze, like it had all the time in the world.


End file.
